


Taste like guilty longing

by redsnake05



Category: Bandom, The Academy Is...
Genre: D/s themes, Food, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-31
Updated: 2010-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-06 21:16:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsnake05/pseuds/redsnake05
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike's got denial and repression down to an art form, but his bandmates don't seem to care, and Adam's just been waiting for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taste like guilty longing

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://community.livejournal.com/no_tags/profile)[**no_tags**](http://community.livejournal.com/no_tags/) exchange for a charming anon whose prompt was "Mike/Adam, sandwiches". And, funnily enough, there are actual sandwiches involved. Beta read by [](http://la-dissonance.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**la_dissonance**](http://la-dissonance.dreamwidth.org/)

Mike loved writing music. Even when he was tired, frustrated, and three curse words from strangling Bill Beckett, he loved the creative process. When the band met to start working on the new album, he felt more alive than he had in months. He'd been itching out of his skin for weeks, desperate to get back to work. No amount of drinking, shit-stirring and being an asshole could compare to music.

He supposed that's why he was first at their practice space, opening up the door with cold fingers and ducking inside to wrestle with the heating. That was why he had three guitars, two amps, six notebooks, his laptop and his lunch in a bright green lunchbox. He paused halfway through priming the boiler. Maybe the lunchbox didn't have anything to do with being eager to start writing. Shaking his head, he checked the exhaust outlet and stepped back. He was going to have this practice space ready to start humming soon. It was going to be warm and cozy, perfect for them to hole up in and scream at each other until they were hoarse and had an album. He had twenty bucks riding on being able to make Bill cry within the week.

The boiler chugged to life and Mike smiled with satisfaction. Wiping his hands on a towel, he took the stairs back to the top level, feet echoing on the wooden floor. He was still the only one here, so he uncoiled leads and started plugging and duct taping industriously. He liked things perfect before he started, because William was capable of tripping over thin air when he was enraged and that was funny as shit, but not so much when trips to the Emergency Room ate into valuable writing time. Writing an album generally required a lot of anger, fist-shaking, invective and hysteria, so there were plenty of opportunities for him to get hurt without loose cables.

"Well, don't you look like a large and hairy school boy on his first day?" said Adam. "So fucking eager." Mike turned as he shuffled through the door. He was laden with bags and cases, but Mike's gaze was caught by the yellow lunchbox that peeked out from under his arm. He grinned, masking his relief. He'd been worried that Adam might have forgotten their tradition.

"And that's why you're early too?" he asked. "I'm not the only one who likes the first day." He managed a nice note of amusement, just keeping the fondness out of his voice.

"Gotta be early if you want prime space in the fridge," Adam replied. "Unlike you, who's just the sweetest little boy scout and wants to be here to make everything perfect for his beffies." Mike shoved at him as he went past, but Adam just grinned and ducked round him. He put his equipment down in his usual place, just behind and a little to the right of Mike. Mike put his head down and kept taping, hoping that Adam wouldn't notice how wide his smile was. Adam made a little happy noise when he opened the fridge and Mike buried his face in his shoulder for a moment to hide his grin before Adam noticed that it was way too big for just first day happiness. His band always made fun of how over-eager he was on the first day and mocked him for his enthusiasm, so it should go unnoticed.

Mike couldn't remember when this habit had started, bringing lunch to practice instead of buying it. All he could remember was how good it felt to take a break in the middle of the day and sit close to Adam, swapping bits and pieces of their lunches and talking quietly. No one interrupted them. It made Mike happy and settled somehow, like he got enough Adam time and didn't go crazy in his skin. He wasn't going to question it further than that. And he loved not sharing anything with Bill. Listening to his moaning and complaining was priceless.

Finishing with his gear, he moved on to Adam's. Adam crouched beside him and they worked together to set the gear up. Every time their fingers brushed, Mike thought of lunchtime and how much he was looking forward to it.

They were half done when Adam leaned forward a little too far and Mike gripped his wrist hard, dragging him back to equilibrium. Adam smiled at Mike as he slowly released his wrist. Mike's mouth was suddenly dry, but he swallowed hard and shook out his hand. He didn't want his bass player smashing anything on the concrete on the first day of practice. It was hard, even when they put the carpets down. He looked away and concentrated on tugging the kinks out of a cable.

"Jam with me?" asked Adam, straightening up from his crouch as the last cable was secured. Mike grinned and pushed his hair out of his eyes. He could forget that the moment of awareness had happened now, grinning back normally, just his usual asshole, shit-stirring smile.

"Do you think you can keep up?" he asked.

"I think you overestimate yourself," Adam retorted.

"I think you're in for a bruising."

"I think you should keep your manly posturing to yourselves," said William as he came through the door. He was wrapped in a coat and hat and looked disgruntled and cold. "Some of us have not had nearly enough coffee for this."

Butcher followed him inside, rolling his eyes at William's back. "Here are your notebooks, princess," he said. "Can I go and get my kit now?"

"Put them down by the couch," ordered William. Mike rolled his eyes too and exchanged mocking looks with Adam. He wanted to laugh. William was always like this when they started something. It was hilarious. William stalked into the kitchen to drop off his box of beer, shoving them in on the bottom shelf. "Oh, right," he sneered, "I'd forgotten that I'm in a band with gradeschoolers. Mike has probably had to go potty six times already, he's so excited."

"You're jealous of our lunchboxes," said Adam. "And our delicious sandwiches."

"Indeed," said William, rolling the word out of his mouth like it was poison. "When I am eating my perfectly hot and delectable ordered-in pizza, I know I will cry into it." He looked round. "Butcher, where did you put my bag?"

"It's in the car," said Butcher, already back with the first part of his kit.

"You didn't bring it in for me?"

"I brought in your thirty thousand floral notebooks," Butcher said. He put his first bag down in his usual place. "Get your own bag. Chiz's just arrived, you can help him with his shit too."

"But it's heavy," whined Bill.

Mike laughed and nudged Adam's arm with his elbow. Adam was grinning too. Histrionics this early in the process were a good sign. Mike knew this was going to go well.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Stretching out on the couch, television a dull hum in the background, Mike felt tired, but far too wide awake to sleep. He balanced his beer on the table and closed his eyes, letting his lips curve into a smile as he thought about the day's progress. He'd been right, the snitty bitching had been a good sign; William had some lyrical gold tucked away in those notebooks. Jamming with Michael had always been good, too, but Mike had forgotten how enthusiastic he could get when he had something solid to work on. Butcher had taken a fuck ton of photos. Mike supposed it was how he liked to relax. And Adam. He was always there, such a solid fucker for someone so skinny.

Mike could still remember how tiny he'd been when they first met. He pushed that memory away, though. He didn't like remembering how things had been then, while they'd been sorting themselves out and working out how to be a band, how to be friends. Adam had been fifteen, wide eyed and so fucking impressionable.

Opening his eyes again, Mike glanced at the tv screen. It looked like shit. He wished he had someone there with him; company would be better than shitty tv. He wished Adam was there to talk about old times with. Except that he didn't, because he knew he wouldn't be able to keep the wistful nostalgia from his voice. He snorted at himself. Fuck, he was getting maudlin. Maybe he should have a shower and jerk off, try to switch his brain off a little. Unbidden, an image of Adam's wrist wrapped in his fingers came to him and Mike cursed, shaking his head to get rid of it, perfect and impossible. He'd got rid of those thoughts years ago. He wasn't going to let them back. Not even the sense memory of Adam's delicate little bones, encircled by Mike's hand, was going to tempt him.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

A week later, and the smiles were a little faded, but at least Bill wasn't acting as much like a drama queen. He was writing and creating and fighting, and Mike could almost taste how good this album was going to be. They had ideas and fragments, and each day they built them up and rearranged them like a succession of origami shapes or recycled mosaics. He flopped down on the couch next to Adam with his lunchbox, grinning at him as the door slammed shut behind Michael. The others were going out for lunch today, and Mike's heart had warmed as Adam shook his head at Butcher's invitation and had elected to stay behind with Mike.

Mike had kept a tight rein on himself around Adam for the week, but things were getting easier for him. He looked at Adam as he opened up the lid on his box. Adam already had his open between them. He had a thermos with him today, and Mike could see sandwiches and a cup of yoghurt, maybe some dried fruit and nuts.

"Would you like some soup?" Adam asked. "Tomato. It's yummy."

"Did you make it?" said Mike.

"Yeah," said Adam. "My mum used to make this recipe."

"Sounds good," said Mike, smiling as he took the cup Adam held out. Adam already had some, nestled carefully on the floor by his foot, and Mike watched his face crease in concentration as he poured out Mike's share. As Adam raised the thermos higher to get the last bit out, some splashed out and over his fingers.

"Hey, that's mine," Mike protested as Adam cursed and put down the thermos, looking for something to wipe his fingers on. Mike put the cup down next to the thermos. Adam half-laughed and held his hand out.

"Have it then," he suggested. "Since it's yours."

Mike smiled and gripped Adam's wrist, pulling him closer. It should have been a joke, a meaningless touch between friends. Bending his head, he licked at Adam's finger, tongue scraping on rough calluses, catching the homely taste of tomato over the unexpected salt of Adam's skin. Adam's breath caught and Mike looked up at him; it didn't feel like a joke anymore. Adam's lips were parted and he was still flushed pink from practice. Mike ducked his head again and sucked on the next finger, stubbornly ignoring the way his mind clamoured that this was a bad idea. He was just getting the soup. If he was enjoying the feel of Adam's pulse under his fingers, or the taste of his skin, that was nothing to do with it. It was just avoiding waste and mess, that was all.

When he pulled back, Adam's hand clean and wet, Mike was hard inside his jeans. He looked up at Adam, taking in the darkness of his eyes, the way his lower lip was red like he'd been biting it. His pulse was hammering under his skin, just under Mike's fingers. It was fragile, and Mike wanted to press his lips there too and suck hard, leaving a mark in memory of the way he'd made it race.

The realisation of his desire, of how far he'd let it spiral out of his control, made Mike's head spin. As the moment stretched out, he felt shame rise alongside the lingering arousal. He wasn't supposed to feel like this; he'd trained it out of himself a long time ago, back when Adam was still beautiful, innocent jailbait. But he wanted to pin Adam down on the sofa and grind into him, feel if he was as hard as Mike. He wanted to bite into his lip himself and see how it tasted. Adam tugged his hand free from Mike's grasp and Mike braced himself for awkwardness, or maybe a punch in the face.

Not looking away from Mike's face, Adam fumbled in his lunchbox, finally pulling out a piece of dried fruit and leaning closer, pressing it against Mike's lips. Mike opened automatically, teeth sinking into sweet tropical fruit, just catching on the very tips of Adam's fingers. Adam didn't move his fingers for a long moment before he pulled them away slowly, letting his calluses drag on Mike's lips.

"Mike," he whispered, "Mike, I...." His voice trailed off and Mike watched him swallow hard, his hand still suspended between them. Mike moved forward, catching Adam's wrist again and turning his head to press his lips to Adam's palm. He almost felt rather than heard the noise Adam made as he pulled on his arm, lips moving down to press against the accelerated flutter of his pulse. He had no idea what he was doing, or how this had gotten so dangerous so fast.

The door to the practice space banged open and William burst in, waving his arms and shouting incoherently. Mike and Adam jerked apart, Mike kicking over his cup of soup as he pulled away. He cursed as Butcher tumbled in behind Bill, looking as annoyed as was possible for someone so laid back. Michael followed behind him, just looking confused.

"What the fuck?" said Mike, jumping up. "My soup, you asshole."

"Mike Carden," said Bill, jumping forward and shaking him by his shoulders, "you must rescue me. Lunch, I must have it. Sustenance!" He glared over his shoulder at Butcher. "Butcher has a flat tyre."

"I _have_ lunch," growled Mike. He felt off balance and weird; he was terrified that the others would be able to tell what he and Adam had just been doing, and half wished that they could see. He glanced over his shoulder to see how Adam had curled himself up into a package of limbs, the look on his face kind of strained and annoyed. Soup from Mike's cup spilled red over the floor and he really needed to clean it up.

"But I shall die," declared Bill. "You must take me, you must, because Michael and I carpooled with Butcher this morning and he has _failed_ us."

"Take my car," said Adam. He wormed his hand into his pocket and pulled out his keys. "Unless you want to take them" he added, looking up at Mike with a questioning expression. Mike swallowed. He wanted nothing more than to be alone with Adam right now, to finish what they'd started, but he was scared too. He was sure he'd gotten over this years ago, back when Adam was too young to know about what a pervert Mike was. Adam's face fell and he bit his lip and looked away as Mike hesitated.

"Yes, okay, good idea" said Butcher, striding over and grabbing Adam's keys. "William, let go of Mike and let them enjoy their date, fuck." Mike watched as Adam blushed bright red from under the neck of his hoodie up, even his ears burning with it.

William's hands uncurled from Mike's shoulders. "Yes, indeed, we should respect their alone time," he said. "As I would, were I not about to expire from hunger."

"Yes, yes, princess cupcake flower," retorted Butcher, grabbing William's elbow and dragging him towards the door. "We'll be back in an hour," he called over his shoulder.

"I don't get it," Michael complained as he trailed after Butcher and William. "Don't they date in the evening?"

"Mike doesn't know they're dating," said William. "Ow, fuck, Butcher!" he yelped as a hand connected with his ribs. The rest of his curses were lost as Michael shut the door behind them, leaving Mike and Adam alone in the silent room.

"Well, this is awkward," said Adam, turning his head finally and meeting Mike's gaze. He looked a little defiant, like he was prepared to brazen out any arguments Mike had to make. He unfolded himself from the couch. "I'll get something to clean up that soup."

"Don't," said Mike. His head was spinning with realisations and possibilities. He took a step forward before he even realised what he'd done, his hands curling over Adam's shoulders like that was the only place they could go. "How long?" he asked.

"Since we met," replied Adam, biting his lip and looking away. Mike hadn't meant that; he'd been asking how long they'd been supposedly dating for, but the thought that Adam had wanted him that long ago made him catch his breath. His fingers tightened and he made himself relax them, but not before Adam whimpered low in his throat.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Oh fuck, if I'd...." Mike stopped, because he couldn't have done anything about it then, not when Adam had been so young.

"Yeah?" asked Adam. "I used to, fuck, I used to think about you, when you taught me bass." Mike swallowed hard as Adam continued, "Even when I knew you didn't want me like that. I've thought about what I'd say right now a million times."

"I felt so dirty, wanting you when you were fifteen," said Mike. He stepped closer, forcing himself to move slowly, to keep hold of his control, even if Adam didn't seem to want that. Adam's shoulders were warm and perfect under Mike's hands, and he was looking at Mike like he couldn't quite believe this was true. It made Mike want to tell him all the things he'd repressed and denied, the filthy, wrong things he'd fantasised about for years and then forced himself to forget. Adam's hands crept along the edge of Mike's hoodie, slipping under against the skin.

"Do you? Still?" asked Adam. He bit his lip and Mike leaned forward to brush his tongue over the spot, tasting the indents Adam had made. He wanted to push Adam against the wall and fuck him, bend him over the sofa, mark him and hurt him and take care of him. He wanted Adam, every scrap of lust he'd ever made himself deny rushing back under his skin.

"Fuck yes," he breathed. "Oh, god, _yes_." He could hardly believe that he'd ever been able to shut this off. Grabbing Adam's wrists hard, Mike shoved Adam up against the wall, pinning him there with his hands up by his head, one of Mike's thighs forced between Adam's. Adam moaned and relaxed into the hold, tipping his head back and letting Mike nip roughly along the exposed skin of his throat. Mike was breathing hard already; he could feel the hammer of Adam's pulse under his skin.

"Please," gasped Adam.

"You don't know what you're asking for," said Mike. He held onto his control by a thread, even as he ground into Adam, so close to snapping and just taking what Adam was offering him. He couldn't though, this was important; too important to ruin with all the fucked up things Mike wanted.

"I've fucking watched you," said Adam. "I know, please." His fingers twitched in Mike's grasp, not struggling or testing, just affirming Mike's grip and the security of the restraint. "I fucking wanted it when I was fifteen, when I saw you doing it with other people. I want it. Please, Mike, fucking do it."

Mike's grip tightened, hard enough that there would definitely be bruises, he knew. "I don't want to hurt you," he said.

"Liar," said Adam. "We can talk about your fucking limits later." He strained his body forward, wrapping one leg over Mike's hip. He was hard when he pushed against Mike's groin and Mike was done fighting. He kissed Adam roughly, teeth hard in his lower lip, tongue claiming every bit of space in Adam's mouth. He swallowed down Adam's noises, enjoyed the way he kissed back with abandon. Pushing up with his thigh, Mike ground into Adam, relishing the friction even through their clothes. Adam moaned softly, jerking forwards into Mike.

Mike wanted this. He could feel the burn of his own arousal, cutting through all his bullshit denial and repression, all the lies he'd told himself about best friends and platonic protectiveness. He let go of Adam's wrists.

"Open your pants," he said, moving back and watching as Adam popped open the button and unzipped, fingers staying on the waistband, but making no move to undress further. Mike looked at him, taking in the heave of his chest and the dazed, wanting look on his face. "Hands against the wall," he ordered. "No moving."

Adam complied and Mike slipped to his knees, looking up Adam's body as he framed Adam's hips with his hands and worked jeans and boxers down a little, enough to get him bare. He licked over the head of Adam's cock and listened to the whimper of pleasure it wrung out from him. Mike wanted everything from Adam, but right now he wanted to taste him and listen to him, and savour the pleasure of Adam being _his_.

Adam moaned loudly as Mike sank his mouth down over his cock, but he kept his hands still by his sides. Mike worked in earnest, then, wanting to wind Adam tight and make him fly. It was a heady feeling, sucking hard and swirling his tongue over the head, hearing every shade of pleasure come back to him in Adam's needy noises and broken begging. Hands gripping Adam's hips just a little too tightly, Mike urged Adam closer and closer to the edge, listening to his moans get more urgent, and, under that, the scrabble of his fingers against the brick wall.

"Now," said Mike, pulling back and shifting one hand to stroke instead. Adam sobbed and arched, coming hard into Mike's cupped hand before sinking back against the wall. Breathing hard, his eyes fluttered open as Mike came to his feet, already working his jeans open one-handed and shoving them down enough to get at his cock.

"If you were fifteen," he said, hoarse and wild-sounding, even to his own ears, "you'd be hard again by the time I'd worked you open with your own come."

"You could fuck me now," Adam offered. He looked wrecked, beautiful, and Mike wanted to take him up on it, wanted to turn him round against the wall and fuck him there and then, bareback and careless, rough and so fucking dirty.

"Gonna take you home," he said, groaning as he fisted his own cock with his sticky hand. "Gonna wait, gonna make it so good."

"Let me touch you," said Adam. Mike nodded, dropping his head onto Adam's shoulder, shuddering as Adam's hands slid greedily over his skin. He was so close, so buzzing from finally getting to touch Adam, kiss him, know that he wanted Mike too. Turning his head, he bit the skin on Adam's neck, worrying his teeth and tongue over it and sucking gently. Adam moaned.

"I've been waiting for this," he confessed, whispering into Mike's ear. "You feel so good, finally touching me, letting me touch you."

"Fuck," gasped Mike, coming over his hand and a little over Adam's belly with a rush of sensation. He felt like he was flying, skin too small for all the sensation. He heard Adam moan a little as Mike bit hard, teeth digging into his throat. Shuddering, Mike pressed even closer against Adam, kissing him softly and maybe just a little shakily. Mike pulled back and looked around, grabbing William's towel to wipe his hand and clean them both up, getting them back into their pants. Adam laughed and dragged him close again.

Exchanging long, slow kisses, Mike felt like it had only been moments when the door banged open again. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw William come to a stop and open his mouth to scream, muffled suddenly by Butcher's hand over his mouth. Mike grinned. Turning, he watched Butcher push William back as he fought to get to the two of them.

"My towel!" he howled. "How could you? Vipers!"

"Five bucks says he turns purple before Butcher soothes him," said Mike.

"Woah," said Michael, trailing in last with a tray of coffee cups. "You said Mike didn't know they were dating." He sounded accusatory, turning to William with a hurt expression. "But obviously he does, or the room would not smell like jizz."

William made an incoherent noise and flailed his arms.

"I'm guessing we won't be doing any more writing this afternoon," said Butcher, sounding resigned. "Hey, don't try to bite me," he snapped, pushing William back a little harder. William made one last inarticulate snarl and collapsed, all the fight going out of him as he slumped over Butcher and sniffed pathetically into his collar. Butcher patted at him distractedly.

"Mike's going to take me home and fuck me," said Adam cheerfully. William moaned into Butcher's neck.

"Why didn't he take you home at the beginning?" asked Michael. His brow was wrinkled in thought.

"They live to torture me," declared William. "With their lunches and their thoughtlessness and their callous disregard for me and my sensibilities. My towel!"

"There, there," muttered Butcher. "You're kinda squashing me." William sobbed a little and Butcher sighed.

"Coffee?" asked Michael, offering up his tray to no one in particular. Mike grinned as he wrapped his fingers around Adam's wrist and tugged him over to gather up his gear. Driving William to hysterical tears was always a fun part of making an album. He looked at the bruises blooming on Adam's wrists and thought of the way the music was fitting together, and thought of all the ways this was going to work out well.

"We should leave them with your car," he said.

"Cool," Adam replied. "You can feel me up at all the lights."

"Fuck, can you just go?" asked Butcher. "He's starting to get really heavy."

"No, really, coffee?" said Michael. He looked a little desperate to get rid of both the coffees and Mike and Adam, so Mike grabbed one on his way to the door, Adam right behind him. The door swung shut on the little practice space and Adam shook his ass as he walked past on his way to the car.

"I guess I really am in for a bruising," Adam said, lounging against the door. Mike laughed and walked round to his side.

"You love it," he replied.

"I know I'm going to," said Adam.


End file.
